


Guruthnaur.

by hennethgalad



Series: Concerning Dior. [12]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Silmarils., The Oath of Feanor.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Dior receives word from the sons of Fëanor asking for the Silmaril.





	Guruthnaur.

 

  
    

  
   The sunlight sparkled on the sawdust which floated in drifting clouds as the chief carpenter's apprentice swept the floor again. The scattering of water had kept down the worst of the dust, but Dior held his arm over his mouth for a few minutes, looking up from the new shaft he was polishing for his spear, Deadly Fire. The aromatic oil of flax soaked swiftly into the polished ash wood, and the colour was deeping to a rich ruddy gold. Dior straightened his back and smiled, his father, with the same determination and attention to detail as the Elves, had always crafted his own weapons, and Dior in turn was teaching his sons the skills of lathe and anvil. Elurín sat at his feet, as ever, poking at a shapeless chip with a small blunt chisel. It was vital to get the feel of the tools, to become accustomed to the heft and balance, before any attempt be made to use them. Elurin looked up seriously at his father.  
   "Father, why do you use a spear, not a bow ?"  
Dior smiled.  
   "I do use a bow, but with a spear, you can throw it, or you can use it to stab with, like a sword. I like to be able to do both, in case I am surprised, just as we learn to make our own weapons, should the need arise and we find ourselves unarmed in the wild."  
   "How old were you when your father took you into the wild ?"

   This time Dior laughed, and the sound brought Eluréd running over from the lathe he had been watching. Dior had told the story many times, to ask it was a sign that the twins wished to stay up a little later, for their father invariably wandered back into the happiness of his childhood, telling them stories of life on the green isle that seemed to them now as the memory of a dream, and they pined for their own lost infancy with a pain they could scarcely identify.  
   The lullabies of Lúthien had brought them a joy that none of the splendours of the restoration of Menegroth could replace, and though they flourished, running wild in wood and cave, the passing of Tinúviel had cast its shadow.  
Eluréd threw his arms around his father and scrambled up onto his lap. Elurín moved closer, resting his head on the knee of Dior, who laid a hand upon the small, fragile skull beneath the soft fine hair.  
   "I was thirteen years of the Sun, as well you know. He left me with dagger and tinder, but I knew what must be done. I found my flint, I built a fire"  
As usual, both boys squealed at once

   "Have you still got it ?" and "Show us the flint, father !"

   Dior, feigning reluctance, would pull the small, much-used piece of flint from his pouch, and Eluréd seized it eagerly. But Dior was still, lost to memory, searching the stream bed for the right shape of rock, the right colour of rock, the exact... The moment he had found it, he had known all would be well. If he could make fire, it would be enough, he could survive on foraging, and protect himself from wild beasts with flaming branches, if nothing else; but most of all, the fire would give him the warmth and security of home, in a way that the most lavish hospitality of the wood-elves could never do. And when the greedy flames first leaped among the twigs he had arranged in their neat spire, he had grinned to himself, knowing that he had passed a great test, and could henceforth count himself among the warriors of Mortals, though to the Elves he remained an infant.

  
  Nimloth appeared in the doorway of the carpenters workshop. Her eyes met those of her husband with an anxious frown, but she did not enter. Dior looked down at his sons.  
   "Here is your mother, why not find out what she wishes ?" The words were scarcely uttered before the twins ran shouting across the workshop, causing heads to lift from the other benches. The room was silent but for the hiss of the turning lathe, and the light footsteps of the boys. Dior stood himself, and glanced down at the flint in his hand, and thought of wishes, and of what was truly needed.  
   He knew that he himself had little ambition. His dreams, the chords that made his spirit sing, matched those of his wife; she wished to know the forests, to know the trees and the Onodrim, and he wished to travel and know the world. They dreamed yet, in the quiet darkness of the night, that they could one day leave Doriath, leave Beleriand, and journey South, into the unknown. At times they would agree that once the twins were old enough, they could be left to govern, and would spend weeks planning their expedition, down to the last detail.

   But Nimloth would sigh and say "You know that I can never leave them." Dior would grip her hand and say nothing, but his heart would beat more steadily, and his shoulders loosen their grip on his neck, for he loved his children with a fierce and tender devotion.

   Dior was surprised to see the boys run off along the hall without turning. Nimloth stood still, by the door, looking seriously at him. He frowned and quickened his step.  
"What is it, my love ? Are there ill-tidings ?"  
"Word has come from the sons of Fëanor. They wish for the jewel made by their father."

   Dior felt a cold blackness fall upon his spirit, his heart ceased in its motion for a time, then resumed its course, swift and urgent. The sons of Fëanor, the Kinslayers...  
He turned anxiously to look at the new shaft for his spear.  
   "Where are they ?"  
   "Come, the council is gathering even now. I have sent the boys to Helin, she will keep them busy until..."  
   They looked into each others eyes, their spirits flickered together as twisting flames of candles melting into one flame, and all the words they had spoken or would think of to speak, were there before them in their minds, and their minds reached out together to join with the flame of the spirit of all those in Menegroth, and all those in Doriath, flowing out across Beleriand, thinning, growing lighter, until the spirits of the other Eldar in middle-earth twinkled around them like the wandering stars against the fainter lights of the fixed stars that were the Sindar.

 

  
   The great Hall of Thingol was crowded, but for the open space between the two rows of pillars graven into the forms of tall trees that upheld the high rock arches of the ceiling. The nightingales had remained, to the surprise of Dior, though they no longer hovered in a flock with the thought of Melian. But Menegroth was filled with their song, the scattered colonies flourished in the many empty caverns.  
  Dior had worked hard to restore the splendour of the thousand caves, but there was more than spilled blood to clean away. The dead must be mourned, and replaced. Those closest to Thingol were perished, slain at his side, or in the invasion of the Dwarves. Gildor had also been busy, and made it his business to establish which Elf in every field knew where the keys were kept, and who else to turn to. But it was the long knowledge of Nimloth of Doriath, the wisdom of time, which brought the most to Dior, who openly deferred to her judgment; for both wished to bring light and song once more to the carven vastness of Menegroth.  
   The efforts of Dior and his people had won acclaim, and more of the scattered Elves of Beleriand joined them daily. But the Elven host of Doriath had been thinned, by the endless forays of the Enemy, by the battle for the Nauglamir, and by the dreadful slaughter that had followed it.

   Dior was relieved that the necklace was safe in its casket, not shining at his throat, for so many had been lost to find it that the thing seemed tainted anew by their blood, and the anguished tears of those who mourned them. He thought of the scream perceived by Nimloth, pulsing forth from the Silmaril like the beat of a fell heart, as though the thing were alive.  
  It had always seemed to him that the jewel gave forth a warning, like the hum of a mighty wasp, that it was perilous even to approach.

  Dior sat on the couch, Nimloth beside him, and looked out across the crowd, who had fallen silent. He turned to Nimloth, who smiled tightly at him, then rose to her feet. She opened the scroll and read it aloud to the assembled Elves. There were the usual formalities, in carefully expressed Sindar, and then the wish that the jewel be returned to the heirs and rightful owners of the gem. The sons of Fëanor awaited the answer of the son of Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel.

   Dior said nothing, but looked steadily around at the serious faces in the room. There was a long silence. Dior, still unused to the textures of mood of Elves, much less the subtleties of court life, waited patiently until either the mood of those gathered became clear to him, or, as he expected, until one of them broke the silence of thought with a statement or question that would enrage many of the others. He did not have long to wait.

   "My lord. My lady Nimloth, friends and kindred here gathered ! We cannot let the Nauglamir pass into the hands of the Kinslayers ! I myself have lost cousins, my uncle and several dear friends at the slaughter in Alqualondë ! We cannot reward such treachery ! "  
There was a grim murmur of sympathy and kinship. Dior nodded his head slowly, it was difficult to argue with the truth of the bloody deeds of the House of Fëanor, driven by greed, undone by impatience.

   "My lord, the jewel was made by their father, it is their birthright. We should return it to them."

  "My lord ! The jewel was taken from the crown of Morgoth by your own mother ! King Finrod Felagund himself perished on the Quest. Surely you cannot have forgotten this ? It is your birthright ! It is your heirloom ! "

   Even Dior, in his youthful ignorance, could see the flaw in that argument. He smiled and spoke in a soft, amused voice that eased the tension in the room.  
   "If inheritance be valid, then the jewel is theirs."

   "But my lord, they are not worthy of it ! They are cursed by the Valar !  
          'on the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West into the uttermost East... slain ye shall be...'  
   They shall soon perish ! They cannot receive the stone, it will burn them as it burned the dread hound of the Enemy. It is forbidden to them !"

   "My lord, it is not for us to judge the worthiness of the sons of Fëanor, they alone can take full account of their shame in the face of Námo. But we must honour the old laws and return the stone to the heirs of he who crafted it."

  "My lord ! Fëanor did not craft the Light ! It was not his to shape, he merely caged it like a beast. We should destroy the gem and let the Light return to Eru Ilúvatar who first fashioned it from his own being. It does not belong to Fëanor, nor to his ill-famed sons."

   Dior and Nimloth met each others eyes; they themselves had discussed the stone many times, and dreamed of sending it back to Valinor, though Círdan had warned them, in a long, elegant scroll, that no trace of any who had sailed forth into the West had ever been found, save for Voronwë alone, who spoke eloquently of storms beyond imagination, swallowing vessels as a whale swallows tiny fishes.

   

   There was a disturbance at the doors, the crowd parted, pressing ever tighter into the bright throng, as both doors were flung back and the artists entered. They had stopped to change their garments, and were clad all in black; though whether to bring to mind the foe, or as a gesture of mourning, or defiance, or rage, Dior could not say. He glanced at Nimloth, but her face was still and her spirit in listening mode, revealing nothing. He turned to where the artists, bearing great covered frames, were spreading out at the foot of the hall, as though on a stage. Their leader, a sculptor who had done much work on Menegroth itself, in the time before the Sun or the Moon were seen in the sky, bowed formally, then gestured slightly with one long hand.

   The first painting was uncovered. It was 'The Elf', a much-copied work, but a masterpiece of light and shadow. The dead Elf floated face down in black water, his spilled blood staining the back of his tunic and blooming in the water beneath him. The lights of harbour and ship reflected in the barely shifting surface of the water, and the torchlit faces of the Teleri, many weaponless, none in armour, being slaughtered by the merciless, heavily-armed Fëanor and his cursed sons.

   The artist stood beside it until she judged that they had seen what she wished them to see, then gestured again. The widest painting was revealed, it was 'The Pyre'. The great canvas was black at the top, then the red, orange and gold of the fire, and the burning ships, the swan prows wreathed in smoke, all reflected on the bright water, filled with bodies, and below all the black reflected sky.  
   The burning of the ships had always been the act of Fëanor that Dior most hated. The fact that Fëanor had not only condemned his brother and their people to the ice, but burned alive his own son from impatience had always filled Dior with cold terror. He dreaded lest his own, Mortal father be seized with a similar rage of impatience. But Lúthien had found his secret fear, and told Beren, who had taken his son out and taught him how to make arrows, to show him the meaning of patience.

  But Dior could not forget that Fëanor was a smith, the finest such among all the children of Ilúvatar, who must have patience beyong imagining. Yet even so, he had lost mastery of himself and burned alive his own son to spite his brother. Dior shook his head, forgetful of his place under the close scrutiny of all assembled.

   Beside him Nimloth felt the cold hands of doom cover her eyes for a moment; with that slight movement Dior had reached their hearts, the mood had shifted from doubt to decision, and the rest of the council would be spent hearing the arguments of those who felt they must speak, though merely to repeat the words of others.  
   The keen eyes of the artist watched closely, and Nimloth met them with a slight widening of her own eyes. The artist moved her lips in a grim smile and gestured to a third painting, which her followers revealed. It was 'Helcaraxë' ; the long line of Elves in the blinding snowstorm, heads bowed, shoulders hunched, trudging wearily over the endless darkness of the grinding ice. Dior heard the breath hiss between the teeth of Helin, who rose to her feet.

   "By your leave, my lord Dior, I would withdraw..." Dior stood up and looked anxiously at his former tutor, who had grown into the dearest friend of his little family.  
   "Dear Helin, you must do as you please, this is your home ! Will you, do you have aught to say to us on this matter ?"  
   The silence in the room became filled with the stillness of listening Elves. Helin blinked, and took a few steps towards the paintings. She held out a hand to the great painting of Helcaraxë.  
   "Maedhros himself has been maimed. He more than any should know what we lost on the ice, what we paid. How many are there here tonight, maimed as Maedhros is, who lack a limb, or a hand, or suffer pain yet from the teeth of the ice ? And how many of us awaken in the night, still there on the ice, watching the death of loved ones by the weapons of the indifference of nature, and the malice of Fëanor."

   Dior stepped towards her and stood silently beside her. He was pitifully pleased to at least be a little taller than the graceful Helin, whose courtly Noldor refinements had always had him in awe, despite the majesty of his own grandparents in their time of glory. The silence of the room had altered, Dior knew that the purpose of the council was set; to refuse the plea of the sons of Fëanor.

  Nimloth was beside him. She looked not at him but at the image of Helcaraxë, and spoke.  
   "But we should not seek to keep this cursed thing. The Light must return to its source, where it may best be put to use, or cherished in safety, beyond the bloody strife of the children of Ilúvatar.  
   We must take it back, we must return it to Valinor."

   The silence shifted slightly as breath was drawn in across the crowd, but still none spoke. Dior wished that he himself could bear the jewel west, but he must remain, and rear his children, and make safe the land of Doriath in the absence of the power of the Maia who had long protected them. He thought of the wise, subtle smile of his grandmother, and a little of her spirit seemed to come to life within him. The nightingales were singing, their rippling melody flowing through the anxious crowd like waves on dry sand, cooling the temper and breaking the spell of the moment.

   Dior felt as one newly awakened, he frowned and looked about him; there was Gildor, most trusty of all friends. Dior beckoned him with a nod, and Gildor came and helped the staring Helin back to her seat. But Helin shivered, and her eyes focused once more on the hall, and she thanked Gildor with a smile. Dior sighed, and felt the hand of his wife slip into his. He gripped tightly for a moment, and drew in a deep breath.

   "I propose that we send messengers at once to Círdan, telling him of our wish to return the Light to Valinor. It is the only path that we may follow. Though many have perished in the attempt to return, it may be that this gem is the key to the redemption of the Eldar, and may move the Valar to pity for our beleaguered plight.  
   We are under seige from the Enemy, our numbers diminished by battle within the ranks of those who should have been our allies. We shall await the counsel of Círdan before we step further upon this course."

   There was a murmur of agreement, and from the side, a wood-elf flute played the first notes of "Harmony", the song without words, and all those gathered sang, with the exuberance of relief, and of pent up surges of strong emotion. There were tears shed, some of joy, some of pain, but most of grief, grief for those lost, grief for those who remained, and grief for the marring of Arda by the Enemy before the shaping of the world.

 

 

 

 


End file.
